Everything about driving through tiny Texas towns,
with the protestant guilt rushing out of every gutter grate.
It’s noon in October,
and the moon is sitting lazy in the sky;
like a schoolchild
refusing to get out of bed.
And those juvenile clouds,
Midland evenings are awfully dull,
but so very bright.
These nights, they bore and scare me all at once,
like the dead deer lining up in rows under sulking grey trees.
I’ve seen a million before,
they don’t bother me anymore.
Some uncanny trail,
it follows you out here,
like a string on a sweater dragging behind.
Something sinister is surely hiding
under all this roadkill and cacti.